


The Beauty Of This Mess

by IrisCandy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, also basically my hopes and dreams in a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCandy/pseuds/IrisCandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia decided that nothing she'd ever seen or felt was more terrifying than the few minutes she spent walking through La Iglesia post-carnage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beauty Of This Mess

**Author's Note:**

> As promised! Here's a little something I wrote tonight before I have to go back to school tomorrow (bleh.) It's basically an idea of what could probably (most definitely not) happen during the season 4 finale when Stiles goes to church to fight for Scott.

> _Sleep baby sleep_  
>  _What are you waiting for?_  
>  _The morning's on its way_  
>  _You know it's only just a dream_  
>  _Oh sleep baby sleep_  
>  _I lie next to you_  
>  _The beauty of this mess is that it brings me close to you_

As far as they had all come over only a few short years, Lydia decided that nothing she'd ever seen or felt was more terrifying than the few minutes she spent walking through La Iglesia post-carnage. Nothing compared to the dread felt when searching through a battlefield for the cold, expressionless faces of her friends.

She and the Sheriff had heard nothing within the confines of the ramshackle church when they had pulled up in the Sheriff's cruiser. They were meant to stay in Beacon Hills, but the agony of reaching voicemail when trying to get in touch with everyone they loved was just a little too much to bear. Of course, by the time they reached Mexico, it seemed whatever battle had gone on inside had dwindled to nothing more than blood, bodies and an agonizing silence pressing on their ears.

And now, they held their breath as they made their way inside, bracing themselves on the cold walls of the abandoned church.

"It smells horrible," Lydia whispered, a tremor in her voice. Truthfully, it was the smell of decay, and she wondered if the Sheriff could smell it too or if it was just another unfortunate side effect to being who she was.

She felt a warm pressure on her shoulder, the touch so real and electric in the empty church that it sent a shiver crawling up her spine.

"I'm right behind you, sweetheart," the Sheriff said quietly, reassuringly.

Perhaps with so many years of experience in the police department, the man had learned to sound confident in times of great trepidation, but Lydia knew despite his reassurance that he was just as sick with anxiety as she was.

Neither of them knew what they would find, but both knew what to expect.

Lydia took a deep breath as the two of them entered a particularly dark section of the church, and she heard the Sheriff reach for a flashlight behind her before the whole room was lit with the blue light, casting sharp and eerie shadows across the ground.  

She tried to channel her powers. The feelings inside of her, the smell and the dull whispers at the back of her mind were jumbled and incomprehensible, sending only wariness through her. There was no doubt that there were fresh bodies in the church, but she just couldn't know if they were friend or foe.

Once again she cursed herself and her useless abilities. She was so overwhelmed with fear that she couldn't sharpen the senses she needed most - the ones that she couldn't fully understand.  

So they would have to do it the old-fashioned way. They searched every corner of the church, the Sheriff's hand braced on his gun at all times and the two of them never straying very far from one another. Recently, with a small shock, she'd realized that she'd come to think of the man as a father rather than a Sheriff - a better, more capable father than her own - and she trusted him wholeheartedly.

As Lydia bent down under a marble table covered in ivy, knowing full well none of her friends could fit underneath it, a sharp melody rang through the church. She jumped and looked around wildly for where the sound was coming from, but she noticed that the Sheriff was still and silent.

"Do you hear that?" Lydia asked. She'd become so used to asking the question that she felt the urge to laugh as she said the words.

 _This is no time for hysterics_ , she told herself in frustration. The voice in her head sounded more like Allison's each and every day.

"No," the Sheriff said, his brow furrowed. "What is it?"

She looked around once more, cocking her head like a dog straining to hear.

"Lydia?" the Sheriff asked when she didn't respond.

"It's Stiles' ringtone," she said quietly, recognizing the melody. She remembered the times when they would study together after Stiles had been possessed, when things had become quieter in Beacon Hills. He would constantly get calls from his dad checking up on him and she remembered watching how frustrated he'd become after the first few times, struggling to keep his voice even as he told his dad again and again, _I'm fine, Dad. Still me, still staring blankly at Lydia's history notes. I promise._

Truthfully, those study sessions were mostly just for her to keep an eye on him without being as blatantly obvious as his father.

The melody got louder, loud enough to send the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. A familiar feeling rose in her chest, like a comfortable warmth. She closed her eyes a moment and let herself feel it, letting it guide her to where she needed to go.

She started walking, aware of the Sheriff keeping his distance as he followed behind her.

She let the melody get louder and louder until she stumbled.

"Hey, hey-" the Sheriff said, alarmed, starting toward her. "You alright?"

"We're getting closer," Lydia said simply, her mind distant as she began to feel a stronger tug toward the source of the sound.

"Closer to what?" the Sheriff asked, moving to her side. The corners of his eyes were crinkled with confusion, but she could tell that he was apprehensive.

She didn't respond. The church was so clouded by death that she couldn't be sure if she was being drawn to someone dead or alive. She simply knew that everything about the familiar feeling and the sound of the ringtone screamed _Stiles_.

Suddenly, the melody cut off completely and Lydia was left swaying under a crumbling roof, moonlight streaming through the shafts in the torn wood. There were a few dilapidated stairs behind her which she must have descended in her trance.  In front of her was a stone table, littered with white debris.

As she moved closer to the table, however, her stomach twisted into a knot as she realized it was actually covered in bones. Animal bones of some sort, cleared to the side as if someone had been lying amongst them. She spotted manacles attached to the table that looked as if they had been ripped open by the captive.

The warmth she felt was replaced with a tingling feeling in her fingertips and ice in her veins. She knew something was here. Something _alive_.

"Stiles?" she called, her voice strangled.

The two of them waited silently, staring into the shadows.

A sound cut through the air again, the same melody. This time, however, it was much quieter and tinnier, as if coming through a tiny speaker rather than a megaphone at her ear. A small light shone from the ground in her peripheral and she turned to see Malia's face lighting up the screen of a phone.

Stiles' phone, left abandoned.

She dove toward it and picked it up with trembling fingers, the Sheriff waiting behind her with wide eyes. The flashlight's beam shook in his hands.

"Malia?"  
  
"Lydia?"

It wasn't Malia's voice on the other end, but Stiles'. Lydia felt a rush of relief flood through her. Her knees weakened and she threw a hand out to the wall next to her, fingers hooking into the moss to keep her standing.

"Stiles?" Lydia asked, her voice a high-pitched panic. The Sheriff inhaled sharply next to her. "Stiles, where are you?"

"Where are _you?_  I saw the cruiser and thought maybe you'd find my phone if you were down there - you came with my dad? Is my dad there?" he asked in a rush, sounding slightly out of breath.

"Yes, he's here. He's here, we're fine - we're in the church, we were-"

"No- no, Lydia, you have to get out of there," Stiles said, suddenly yelling through the speaker, panicked. "Listen to me - we couldn't stop the berserkers, they're still in there-"

Lydia's eyes widened as she turned to the Sheriff, struggling to swallow.

"Lydia, you have to get out-" Stiles was still saying, but Lydia was already pocketing the phone and grabbing the Sheriff's hand, running back the way she came. The Sheriff quickly caught on, not bothering to ask questions, and dropped her hand to put his hands on her shoulders instead, keeping them both upright.

Lydia could swear she heard a growling sound, an ominous overlapping of roars in the distance behind her, but at this rate, they were almost at the door.

The flashlight being left behind them in the rush, there was only the moonlight guiding them through the church. Lydia felt a pain blossom at her side suddenly, as if something had scratched her, but she kept running.

As another growl practically vibrated the building behind her, Lydia and the Sheriff were out of the building, panting and doubling over. Lydia stumbled as a sudden wooziness overwhelmed her, falling forward.

Her head collided into something soft, a pair of arms suddenly wrapping around her back and hugging her closer to the warmth, and she couldn't help but collapse into the hold, her legs failing her as someone else held her up against them.

She pressed her face up against what she now realized was a sturdy chest and heaved a breath, shaking with too many emotions.

"Lydia," a voice said, breathless with relief. Stiles.

She was breathing in his scent, letting it overwhelm her, finding a moment solace in her disorientation. His arms rubbed up and down her back, holding her against him. She didn't even have the strength to open her eyes, the horrible anxiety and fear she had felt before had completely drained her, leaving her with only the enormous relief that he was alive, he was alive, _he was alive_. His chin rested on the top of her head and she felt his heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, frantic against her cheek.

It lasted only a moment. Her mind flashed to thoughts of Scott, thoughts of Kira, and she lifted her head quickly, gripping his shirt as she stood up to her full height and looked around wildly. It only took her a moment to find Scott with his eyes closed, sitting cross-legged against the Jeep as Kira stroked his hair beside him. He looked dirty beyond belief, and blood stained Kira in a hundred different places, but otherwise the two looked somehow at peace.

Malia was nowhere that she could see, though her phone was sticking out from Stiles' pocket, dirty and damaged as if it had been left abandoned.

Her heart slowed, and she looked up at the boy who caught her.

He shook his head at her, his eyes wide. "That was stupid. That was-"

He looked over to his dad who was breathing heavy behind her. "That was so stupid-"

"Well," she heard the Sheriff say. "Don't lose your damn phone next time."

Lydia's eyes were still on Stiles' face, and she watched as the Sheriff came over and placed a strong and sturdy hand on his shoulder. He lingered for a second, fingers digging into his son's shoulder.

"You alright?" the Sheriff asked, squinting at him.

"Yeah, dad. Fine," Stiles said, looking at Lydia for a moment. Her heart sped up at the warmth in his eyes. "Totally fine."   

"It's been a long night. For both of you," the Sheriff said knowingly. "I'd take you all in the cruiser but it'd be a tight squeeze - and I'm sure you don't want to leave that crappy old Jeep."

"I'll take Lydia home," Stiles said.

He gave his son one last squeeze and smiled kindly at Lydia before pushing off toward Scott and Kira. Lydia watched him crouch down in front of them and felt a swell of affection for the man, smiling before turning back up to face Stiles.

Her fingers still dug into his shirt. She cleared her throat and stepped back a little, but Stiles' hand never left her bicep. She felt she might collapse again without it there, so she didn't protest.

It didn't take long for Stiles to notice the small blossom of blood on her shirt, a thin line of red staining her side.  She wasn't sure how she'd gotten the wound, but besides a dull discomfort, she hardly felt it at all.

"Lydia-" he started, but she shook her head, closing her eyes.

"It's just a scratch."

"It's bleeding bad-"

She furrowed her brow and looked down at the wound before smirking up at him. "Stiles, a paper cut causes more bleeding than-"

But she cut off as she followed his gaze to the blood at their feet. The sound of its dripping was enhanced in her ears suddenly, like the beat of a drum, and she didn't have to ask him to know that he couldn't hear it like she could.  

The pavement was forming a tiny puddle of blood, dripping over their feet.

Blanching, she brought her fingers to her side, but the blood there had already stopped. It was nothing more than a scrape.

Suddenly her breath was constricting, because she realized how off she'd been feeling throughout the entire trip. The enhanced dripping, the sound of Stiles' phone ringing before it happened, his name in her handwriting on a list of the dead.

His MRI sounding in her ears, her GPS leading her to his unconscious body.

"Stiles, that's not my blood," Lydia said, her voice hollow with dread.

Stiles looked up at her, confused. Her eyes didn't leave his as she reached out to place her hand at his side, in the same place where she had the scratch on her own body. She slid her hand under his plaid over shirt, letting her fingers brush over the fabric of his t-shirt. He flinched, and when she gently brought her hand back out, there was blood coating her fingers, shining grotesquely in the moonlight.

Stiles looked down at her hand and started shaking his head, his face pale. "I don't remember that happening."

It was like every film she'd seen in which a warrior comes out of battle victorious, triumphant, free of pain until suddenly, someone points out the fatal wound that the adrenaline had so graciously disguised.

It was only until someone noticed the wound did the warrior collapse.

Stiles didn't collapse.

Instead he looked up at her with pupils huge in the silver light of the moon. "Don't tell my dad."

The words sent a chill through her. Her eyes darted toward the Jeep where Scott and Kira had been sitting, but they were no longer there. They were getting loaded into the Sheriff's cruiser, and as she watched, the Sheriff leaned against the car and looked back at them, waiting.

Lydia again flashed back to her studying sessions with Stiles and remembered the Sheriff's worried calls, the guilt that had overtaken Stiles for causing the Sheriff such grief.

She decided to keep a cool head. She numbed the panic inside of her with knowledge - cleaning a wound, suturing it; remembering the clear minded nurses, detached but caring, who took care of wounded soldiers during the World Wars.

Tonight, Stiles was her soldier, and Lydia wouldn't let him die.

"He's not going to leave until we're safely in the car," Lydia said, straightening, ignoring the sweat beading up on her forehead. "You know that."

She was way too conscious of the wetness of her fingers and the continuous rhythm booming at the back of her mind as drip after drip hit the ground. She swallowed hard.

Stiles nodded.

So in silent agreement, the two of them began to walk toward the Jeep as Stiles pressed his forearm to his side, keeping pressure on the wound. They tried to look happy, like it was all over as Lydia had thought it would be when she landed into Stiles' warm embrace. They walked quickly.

"I have to drive," Stiles said quietly.

"You're crazy," Lydia replied, her voice a high-pitched hiss.

"It's my car. He'll suspect something if I don't."

"We're stopping at a motel," Lydia insisted.

"Fine, you got money for that?"

She flashed Stiles a side glare, embarrassed to speak of their encounter with Brunski when she had so casually pulled out five hundred dollars, but she tried to remind him of it silently nonetheless.

"Of course you do," Stiles said, cocking his head briefly. Lydia nodded once and split from him, climbing into the passenger seat.

Stiles winced and blew air from his cheeks as he entered the car, causing Lydia to bite her lip.

"You know," he said breathlessly, glancing down at himself. Sweat shone on his face. "It doesn't look that bad."

She stopped herself from stating the obvious; that the wound never looked as bad as it could potentially be, but Stiles seemed to have sensed her attitude nonetheless. The silence in the car was tense and terrified.

Finally, the Sheriff started the cruiser and began to drive off, Stiles driving slowly behind him. As they hit the road, the Jeep was eventually lost in the dust behind the cruiser and amongst the few other cars on the road.

"Where's Malia?" Lydia asked suddenly.

Stiles tensed, one hand pressed on his side while the other gripped the steering wheel. "She left."

"What?" Lydia asked, her heart stopping for a moment. "Left where?"

"Not where," Stiles corrected. "She left with Peter. They killed Kate and left by foot, and by the looks of things, they're not coming back."

Lydia swallowed thickly, remembering Malia's words; _I would never leave without you._

A surge of anger went through her at the sight of Stiles' throat working, like he was trying not to cry. She never had any problem with Malia, but she couldn't accept that she had left for Peter, as if the pack - as if _Stiles_ \- meant nothing at all.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Lydia said quietly.

"Well, we got bigger problems now anyway," Stiles said, pain on his face as he pressed harder on the wound.

Soon, the nearest motel came into view, not in any better shape than Motel Glen Capri. A flush of dread went through Lydia. Stiles was in her hands now, at a dingy motel in the middle of nowhere, of all places.

His life in a banshee's hands. Somehow, that didn't sound like something anyone should be pleased about.

He was sweating by the time they reached their room after receiving questioning looks from the front desk, her gaze sweeping across the blood on their fingers. She didn't seem to really care all that much in the end as she handed them their key and continued to polish a small statue on her desk.

"Bed," Lydia ordered as she ushered him into the room.

He had already shed his over shirt, and the wound underneath looked to have stopped bleeding slightly from the pressure he had put on it on the drive over, but the shirt was practically soaked in the blood, red prints from his fingers covering the fabric. The shirt was torn, the wound thick as if from a tusk or a...a berserker.

She raided the small washroom for any type of supplies and found a dusty first aid kit over the sink.  

Rushing back into the room, she was stopped short for a moment. Stiles was on the bed, shirtless and gleaming with sweat. She had to grind her teeth to keep from punching herself as her stomach squirmed slightly. But to her credit, the normally coltish boy was a lot more impressive than she would have originally imagined. Brawny, even. He was thick muscle and broad shoulders, a smooth, lean plain of light and soft skin. Simple. Beautiful.

And then her eyes landed on the stab wound again, and her heart flipped in her chest.

"Okay," Lydia said to herself, breathless.

She made her way over to the bed and sat at its foot, straddling Stiles' legs. She was suddenly reminded of the way Allison had done the same for Scott in the bathroom on their way to Glen Capri. How she had been firm with her directives, calm as she held another's life in her hands.  A lump formed in her throat.

This was not the first time that Lydia feared that her memories, and the panging they caused in her chest, might kill her one day.

Stiles pressed himself into the headboard and furrowed his brow, staring down at the wound. He was breathing heavy, his skin pale.  

Lydia sifted through the first aid kit and was grateful to find clean contents inside. She took a bottle of ointment and an antiseptic pad in her hands and tried to maneuver them with trembling fingers. Her hands shook so hard they were practically useless, and Lydia's heart was pounding so fast it began to hurt.  

Stiles reached out suddenly and covered her hands with his, gripping them tight. Lydia closed her eyes, exhaling.

"It's okay," Stiles croaked. "It's okay, Lydia."

"I'm sorry," Lydia said, her eyes still shut tight. She felt tears burning there.

Too much blood. Too much hurt. Too much pain.

"You can do it, alright? You can-"

A cry sent her eyes flying open again. She pulled her hands away and placed them on top of his instead, squeezing as he screwed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his lip.  

She was being selfish.

She was prolonging his pain out of fear, and after so long - after facing so many things - it would be most selfish, most cowardly of her to let him die right underneath her.  

He was her soldier, and she was going to fix him.

"Okay," she said softly, to the both of them. "Okay, stay with me."

Willing her hands to steady, she poured ointment on the pad and began to clean around the wound. Stiles froze up underneath her, his hands curling to fists, veins protruding from his neck.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmured, reaching up to pull her fingers gently through his hair, to keep his gaze lingering on her. "It's okay. Just- just think of something else, okay?"  

"Not much to think about," he said, too softly.

Placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him down she continued to wipe at the wound, but decided that if she didn't bandage it soon, it would be too late. The bed beneath them was already soaked through with blood.

This was the hard part. Her lip trembled as she unpacked the needle and thread.

She remembered on a particularly bad night, after one of her banshee episodes, she had asked Allison how she kept it together so well. How she kept going - how she kept from breaking down.

 _Breathe,_ she had said, flashing one of her signature smiles. _As cliché as that sounds._

So she did. She took a breath, brought herself into another galaxy where this was the simplest thing a person could do. Inhale, exhale. She imagined that the stale air of the motel was actually the crisp, cool breeze between the mountains where she used to visit with her grandfather. She ran her thumb over Stiles' shoulder, over and over.  

_He's still there. He's still with me._

Opening her eyes, she blocked out the view of the wound in her peripheral and threaded the needle with calm, steady fingers.

Unlike Allison, she did not approach things clinically or unemotionally. In fact, she'd been pretty sure that the mountains she'd breathed in a few moments ago had pushed the tears from her eyes, brought them rolling down her cheeks. The steadiness in her fingers had not come from clinical thinking, but from hope. From the feel of Stiles' still warm skin beneath her fingers, reminding her that he was still there, that all was not lost.

The truth was, when Lydia was constantly surrounded by death and the numbness that fear of the past had left instilled within her, all she had to feel alive was her emotions. Her hope.

So she hushed Stiles beneath her as she continued to sew up the wound, in and out, in and out, until what was left was just a boy, breathing heavy with pain and no longer bleeding his life out on a dusty motel bed.

She placed a hand on his cheek. Her voice was hoarse. "You okay?"

His nod was practically imperceptible. Lydia furrowed her brow and gnawed at her lip. The wound may have been sutured, but he still looked impossibly pale.

She began to wipe the drying blood from his stomach and bandage his abdomen, running her fingers over his skin. Her cheeks were slightly hot now that the worst was over and she was becoming aware of his body beneath hers. She rolled her eyes begrudgingly at herself.

She'd been paying so much attention to her bandaging that it was only when she'd secured it in place did she notice Stiles' eyes closing, his head lolling to the side.

"Hey," she said, a little too firmly. She reached out to touch his face. "Stiles."

He opened his eyes slightly, only to have them droop back down again. Her heart began to beat fast again. _Exhaustion or blood loss?_

"Stiles, how are you feeling?" she asked, panic seeping into her voice.

"Tired," he whispered hoarsely. "Just tired."

His eyes were closed, but he managed to reach out and brush his fingers against her arm, reassuring her, before his hand dropped back down to the bed and he seemed to be asleep.

She blinked rapidly, her heart still beating a little frantically. His skin was still warm, and he no longer seemed to be sweating, though he trembled slightly.

She should have brought him to a hospital. But God knows the Calaveras would be after them now that they knew about Scott's beta, Liam. The motel would be far safer than a hospital.

Trusting in her instinct that he was okay, that he was simply tired, Lydia looked around the room for a blanket and found a ratty looking one on a chair in the corner. After washing off the blood from her hands, she draped it over him, letting her hand linger on his shoulder. Somehow the comfort of the blanket's wool and the feel of his skin made her realize just how tired _she_ was too.

She'd wanted to collapse and sleep in his arms earlier, after her escape from the church, but the fresh wound had sent her on the go again and now the absence of another dose of adrenaline left her shaking and exhausted.

She glanced at the blood on the bed, but after seeing so much of it tonight, she wasn't nearly grossed out enough to sleep on the floor.

Plus, she needed to stay by his side, to make sure he was still breathing.  

So she turned off the harsh lights of the motel room and crawled into the bed with him, curling into her thin cardigan and staring at his profile as if it would eventually lull her to sleep.

Apparently, her body wasn't tired enough to leave her alone for the night. To her horror, tears started to build in her eyes. She'd seen him in so much pain tonight, had felt him writhing as her hands, slippery with blood, tried to sew a bloody wound. She had been reminded too much of Allison tonight, a fresh scar ripped open within her. Even the thought of Sheriff Stilinski sent her lip trembling, as she finally thought she knew what it was like to have a father's hand on her shoulder, a reassuring voice in her ear. _I'm right behind you, sweetheart._

She missed Allison. God, she missed her best friend. Her wide smile, her twinkling eyes, her strength and her beauty and her comfort.

And until tonight, she hadn't realized how much she missed Stiles. How she missed his smell and his voice and his touch.

She was overwhelmed, and as she felt a sob building in her chest, her eyes widened and she slapped a hand to her mouth. She wouldn't wake him with this. She pressed hard against her mouth as a sob rocked her, and she had the most wonderful feeling of release, as if this one sob had been insidiously building in her for weeks, months, _years_.

She shook with them, hardly able to breathe.

 _Please don't wake up,_ she thought.

But to her surprise and her dread, Stiles flipped over. He moved stiffly and even in his exhaustion, even with the amount of blood he lost tonight, his eyes were open, shining in the bit of moonlight coming through the thin curtains, and searching her face.

She moved her hand from her mouth, but he didn't say a word. He reached out with a thumb, brushed away one of her many tears so gently as to be just a ghost. The brush of a butterflies wings, there and gone just a little too quickly. But then he had his hand on her cheek, brushing her hair back behind her ears. She sniffed and shook in the dark as he blinked owlishly back at her.

They lay there, time standing still, Stiles' warm hand on her face. She reached out slowly and pressed a hand to his chest where his heart was, and she was suddenly so grateful for its steady beating that she could cry all over again. His eyes closed at her touch, and hers began to feel heavy as well.

She fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart, to his hand finally curling around her tiny one, to tears drying on her face and to three little words said over and over in her head, filling her up, pulling her to sleep.

_I love you._

***

The Sheriff had noticed the stab wound. As anyone would have, for the way he was walking so stiffly and the way he seemed weaker than before, Lydia having to hold him up a few times during their trip back home. 

They brought him to Beacon Hills Medical and Lydia was incredibly proud to know that her suture job had seemed to Melissa to have been done by a professional.

"Was there ever any doubt," Stiles had said with a grin, to which Lydia pursed her lips and looked away, a blush forming on her cheeks.

Lydia had questions. About the two of them, about the way she could sometimes hear what Stiles heard and could know just where he was at a certain time. Sometimes she would wake in the middle of night trying to catch her breath, afraid that whatever this was between her and Stiles was somehow entangled with death, entangled with the banshee inside of her. If it was then she would push him away, tell him to run as far away from her as he could because she would refuse to scream for his death. She would refuse to let him die.

Stiles would be silent at times, sad some days, looking tired as he had when the Nogitsune was around. Lydia knew it was because of Malia, because she knew how Stiles got his roots into things when he loved them, and how much it affected him when they would leave him.

Sometimes Lydia would grab his hand and it was all he needed to straighten up and tell a joke or two. God knows they all needed that.

Scott would be the same at times - silent, empty. Stiles had told her how he had become a berserker, something unrecognizable from himself, but still him nonetheless. He told her how that was something Scott had nightmares about.

She knew that he was telling Scott's story, but that he was pulling from his own experiences. Scott, Stiles and Lydia were all alike in that way - they could bond silently over the periods in their life when they had lost control at the hands of another.

For Lydia, it was safe to say that nothing was ever going back to normal. As a banshee, she couldn't escape a constant feeling of foreboding that overwhelmed her at times and sent her spiraling, grappling for her sanity. Sometimes she was afraid she would lose herself - her emotions, her family, her love and her life.

But the thing about Stiles getting his roots into things was that you couldn't help but to love him right back. The truth was that Lydia Martin had fallen hard for Stiles Stilinski, and in that discovery, had noticed that some days, when she couldn't be strong enough to keep herself from falling into the abyss that had opened up beneath them all, then Stiles would be there to keep her grounded. She would do just the same for him.

And by their first real kiss since the locker room, on the night after Allison's birthday - when she heard her best friend's voice ringing clear in her mind ( _Just kiss him, idiot) -_ Lydia discovered that if there was one thing she knew for certain about her powers, it was that she could easily put the voices under lock and key, hidden away until she needed them, when she slept by Stiles' side. His arm around her waist, a smile on her face was all they ever needed to stay sane.

(To stay grounded.)

(To stay happy.)


End file.
